To Those Who Want to Ask Unanswerable Questions, From a Survivor of Suicide Loss

March 24, 2016 //
0

Shortly after losing my father to suicide, I was watching a television interview with a fellow survivor. There was a particular part of her interview that has stayed with me throughout this grief journey. She talked about a “psychological autopsy.” When we lose someone to a physical illness, the autopsy, if performed, is left in the hands of the physicians. When we lose someone to suicide, it is left to the family and loved ones to try to piece together what it was that led them to end their life. Yes, we may know the
method by which they died. But the “why” of it all, well that eludes us….

To read the full post go to The Mighty

Categories Coping with Suicide, loss, mental health, Uncategorized

To Those Who Call Me Brave for Sharing About Surviving Suicide Loss

March 21, 2016 //
0

People tell me that I am brave. I’m really not. They tell me that it takes courage to share my story, my loss with others. I don’t know. For me, there is no other way to wear this new aspect of self that is forever ingrained in me. I am a survivor of suicide loss. I didn’t ask for any of this and in truth, I would go back in an instant to the me that I was before: before my father’s suicide, before I became a survivor, before life as I knew it was forever altered…

To read the full post, go to The Mighty: Real People. Real Stories – Deborah Greene

This piece has also been featured in the Voices section of The Dialogue Projects.

The Dialogue Projects’ mission is to create quality products that help fund mental health organizations while simultaneously encouraging the conversation around this topic in the hopes of ending its associated stigma. All products feature an illustrated elephant, our company symbol, to represent the proverbial ‘elephant in the room’. A significant percent of the proceeds from each sale will be implemented into The Dialogue Foundation, which will help support mental health organizations. Click here for a  list of the organizations/programs they support.

Categories Coping with Suicide, healing, loss, mental health

A Letter For My Father ~ Eleven Months Later

March 19, 2016 //
3

Dear Dad,

Tomorrow will mark eleven months since you left us. And soon, it will be a year.  How can that possibly be? Some days it feels as if I’ve lived a lifetime without you, and others it is as if it just happened yesterday.

Eleven months ago, if I knew then, what I know now, there is so much that I would say to you Dad. And there are things I would say and do differently.

I would ask you to stay. In fact, I would beg you.  I am not above saying that.

I would not offer you platitudes or promise it would all get better. I never did. But I would remind you as often as I could that in all of your brokenness, just as you were, you were loved. Never again would I say that perhaps you could “fake it until you feel it.” Because I know now that faking it took far too much strength and energy. I would tell you that loving you through the hard times was not a burden. That none of us would feel better off without you.

I would ask you to give the therapist & the medication time. And just as I did then, I would temper your expectation that one day you would simply wake up and feel all better. You were so desperate not to hurt anymore and you gave that tiny pill far too much power. And when it failed to act as quickly as you had hoped, you slipped further away from us. Only we didn’t know it.

I would ask you to be honest with us. You showed us pieces of your pain. But you did not show us all of it. Maybe you yourself didn’t recognize the depths of your suffering. Maybe you felt further weakened and embarrassed, ashamed of the notion that you might consider ending your own life. So you pushed those thoughts down into that dark hole that had opened up inside of you.  Oh how I wish you had said it Dad.  Remember how I told you that to make therapy work, you would have to be willing to peel back all of the layers? It would be hard, it could be painful, but it could bring you to a place of understanding yourself and your pain. And from that place of understanding, healing would be possible. But instead you compartmentalized, you rationalized and you masked the truth. Why didn’t you tell someone, anyone that death was beckoning to you, promising you an end to the suffering? Why did you only drop hints that we were unprepared to recognize then? If you had just spoken the words, you might still be here with us now.

Dad, I would tell you that we needed you. And I would remind you of all the goodness, the joy, the celebrations that were yet to come. I’d ask you to look into the faces of your grandchildren and see all of the beautiful possibilities that lie ahead. Imagine their graduations, bat mitzvahs, and weddings. Imagine sitting with mom, dancing in joy and relishing the growing beauty of the family that you created together. Then I would ask you to see the void that would be present if you were not there. I would ask you to look at the tears, the palpable sense of missing that we would all feel with your absence.

family bat mitzvah

The family that love built

If I had a clue that you were considering suicide, I would have been on the first flight and as a family; we would have gotten you even more help. We would have come up with a plan that met you in crisis and carried you through. Why didn’t you give us that chance Dad?

If I had a chance to say anything to you Dad, I would tell you over and over again that I loved you, that I needed you in my life, that you leaving would be devastating.

I don’t know if any of it would have made a difference Dad. But I am left with so many words unspoken. There was no final goodbye. I didn’t get to hold your hand, embrace you and kiss you one last time.  I would tell you that not getting to do that would forever hurt and haunt me. It feels like you simply disappeared.

Dad, I know that you were suffering. But if you were here now, I would acknowledge it with an even greater understanding. Hindsight offers me an insight that I didn’t fully have a year ago. Your pain was so very real. You hurt all over. I would tell you that it’s okay to let all of that pain show. I would ask you to shed the layers of stigma, the shame, the fear that you would be perceived as weak, frail & somehow less of a man. Those layers only weighed you down, causing you to sink even further. And when you asked if you would ever return to your old self, I would say instead that the goal of each day should be to meet the pain, to share it, to work through it and to strive instead toward healing bit by bit. Because returning to your old self, that may have been far too lofty a goal. Perhaps you didn’t have the strength to reach toward a finish line that was so far off. But small markers, milestones that were within reach, maybe that would have been possible.

I wish I could go back. I wish you were here. I wish I could say all of these things to you Dad. I wish I knew then, what I know now. Eleven months ago you took your life. And all that I want to share with you now; I must sit at your graveside to say. But I say it anyway. I love you. I miss you. I wish you could have stayed. We are not better off without you.  We wanted you here.

dad's headstone

My father’s footstone

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This reflection was also featured on The Mighty. To read more posts like this, click on The Mighty’s Stories about Suicide

Categories Coping with Suicide, family, loss, mental health, Reflections

On Grief & Brokenness

March 18, 2016 //
9

together-and-apart-kintsugi-pottery-3-638

 

The Japanese have a  500-year-old art form called kintsugi, or “golden joinery,” a method of restoring a broken item with a lacquer that is mixed with gold, silver, or platinum.

I’ve been thinking a lot about that practice. This Sunday, 3/20/16, it will be eleven months since my father’s death. Eleven months ago my sense of wholeness was destroyed. My father’s suicide was like a grenade set off in the center of our family. And we who loved him most, were left gathering up the pieces.

Eleven months later, I hold those fragments. There are those pieces of the old me that I can still recognize. And then there are those that are now strange to me, remnants that no longer seem to fit. There is the pain, the sadness, the grief, the anger and the traumatic imprint of all that I have endured and lost. And there too, tenuously I hold newly discovered depths of strength, resilience and courage.

Many days I gather all of these fragments up and I cinch them tightly together. I wear them like armor as I journey through the valley of the shadows. And I tread ever so carefully, lest someone bump into my grief, my sadness, my trauma and cause me to spill those pieces everywhere. Some days I am more successful at maneuvering through the triggers than others. And other days those fragments fall everywhere, and I must stop and face every exposed emotion, every shard, every crack and every fissure. Those are the days that still bring me to my knees and open the wellspring of tears that seem to have no end.

Perhaps grief is not so different from the  art of kintsugi. I read that, the kintsugi method conveys a philosophy not of replacement, but of awe, reverence, and restoration. The gold-filled cracks of a once-broken item are a testament to its history.

I carry the pieces that I have now gathered up. How I will wear them and what that will look like is still unfolding. Some days I feel them slowly falling into place, held ever so tenuously in their new found position.. And other days,  well other days, they come undone simply by a passing breeze that carries me two steps backward, or keeps me stuck in place.

But I’ve grown tired of seeing those days only as setbacks, failures or another barrier to where I want to be. I know that grieving a suicide loss is a long and difficult road. And I know that there is no finish line that I will cross. It is an ongoing journey, it begins in the valley, but I believe in time there will be more peaks. I’m not naive. I know that this traumatic imprint has forever altered the course I must travel. I cannot set it down and leave it behind. Instead I must carry it. But how?

The ancient Israelites carried the broken pieces of the shattered tablets in the tabernacle, right alongside the second set of commandments given to Moses by God. The whole and the broken, remained side by side, in the Ark of the Covenant. The broken fragments were no less holy simply because they were not intact. And so it is for us—that the whole and the broken exist side by side in all of us and we carry them both within on our journeys. Each is holy, because each represents the story that we have lived.

Eleven months after my father’s death, I am like the kintsugi. I felt at one time whole. But loss has left me feeling so very broken. And no matter where the journey takes me, I will carry those cracks, scars and fissures with me. One day my grasp on them will be more certain, and I will find that they have strengthened me. One day I will find that I can look at those broken pieces and know that the best parts of me not only remain, but somehow seem to have more clarity and depth to them. One day the scabs will be more steadfast and I won’t be subject to every trigger opening up my wounds. One day, I will find that I feel less fragile. The winds will blow but I will weather them. I will find that my strength and my beauty lie not in those pieces untouched and unmarred  by life, but in those that have known both love and loss, sadness and joy, anger and forgiveness, pain and healing. I will carry with me and honor the me I was before my father’s suicide, and the me that I am becoming without him in my world.

Today I still feel broken. The pieces have been gathered, and I wake up striving to put them together anew. The golden lacquer has been gently laid. I do not hide the scars. Instead I choose to honor them. They are a symbol of my strength, a roadmap of my story. And in that sacred realization and acceptance I find some healing. Because one day is not always within reach. But where I am today, in this moment, is not a failure. It is enough. There is holiness and beauty in my broken self, just like the kintsugi.

The wound is the place where the Light enters you. (Rumi)

 

 

 

Categories Coping with Suicide, Faith, healing, loss, Uncategorized

Dear Dad ~ It Was Just a Letter

March 11, 2016 //
4

Writing is the painting of the voice. (Voltaire)

It is Friday night, and the whirlwind of these last days have died down for now.

I don’t know what I said in that letter Dad to have been the recipient of this outpouring of compassion. I don’t know what I said that took this letter on such a journey out into the world of social media. But it has in fact gone viral.

Here is the truth as I know it Dad. Those beautiful strangers who stood with me on that horrible morning, they are the true authors of this story. They wrote it in deed, I simply gave it wings and words.

Here is the other truth I know. I would have given anything in the world never to have had reason to write that letter in the first place.

I miss you so much Dad. It has been hard revisiting that moment that I learned you were gone, over & over again these last few days. I’ve faced a lot of hard moments, but none like that one.

Dad, I only hope that given this opportunity to share this letter, that I have helped to humanize the issue of suicide loss. I hope that every time people look at that beautiful smile of yours, that they understand that you had a life full of much joy. I hope they see their own family photo in that precious moment we shared on the dance floor three years ago. It is my favorite picture of us. I hope that helps them to understand that we were just a normal family. We loved, we laughed, we fought, we made up, we celebrated, we mourned and we cherished one another. And even with all of that, we lost you to suicide.

I think I’m probably babbling by now Dad. But here is the thing, I just want to pick up the phone and tell you all about what has been happening, all of the good that I am trying to do, the compassionate words that have been shared, the brave truths of my fellow survivors. I want to tell you all of it, because it was you who loved my writing most. But you are not here and that void feels so very palpable tonight.

I hope you see it all Dad. I hope you know what I am trying to do in your memory. I miss your voice. I miss being able to pick up the phone and talk to you. I miss you just being on this earth with me.

Thank you for every kind angel you have placed in my path these past few days. I’d like to believe it is your love reflected back to me in their words.

I can’t type anymore.The tears won’t stop. So I am going to go miss you and cry, like I sometimes need to do. Like I need to do now.

D

essay-writing

Categories Coping with Suicide, healing, loss, mental health, Nourishing hope, Reflections

Why? The Unanswerable Question That Lingers

February 20, 2016 //
8

Dear Dad,

Noa asked me today if I felt that I was any closer to making peace with how you died? Ten months later, I answered her as honestly as I could.

I told her that I didn’t think that I will ever make peace with your suicide. How can someone make peace with something that feels so utterly wrong, violent and senseless? No, peace is too much to ask for. But, I do believe that I am learning simply to live with it. My head understands that it was an illness that took you. Depression and anxiety took hold, and caused you unimaginable pain. They distorted and diminished your sense of self, of value and of hope.  And, like a cancer, they ate away at you, coursing through your blood day and night. My head has come, as best as is possible, to understand that. That is the truest answer to the question of why, and yet it is so very unsatisfying. It doesn’t rest comfortably on my tongue, it doesn’t offer me any solace. But it is the only truth that I know for certain.

But my heart has yet to let go of the unanswerable questions. I am haunted by the why of it all. The what if’s find their way in as well, and the wonder at what we missed, and what we might have done, if only we’d known. But in the immediate days, weeks and months after you died, those questions reverberated daily, seemingly set on the highest volume. Daily they intruded upon my world, rocking the shaky foundation beneath my feet. They woke me up at night, they kept me from falling asleep, they played like a broken record of a song I didn’t want to hear, but couldn’t turn off.

Today, those questions still linger, but they are softer, less palpable day in and day out. They whisper to me quietly. Sometimes they come at the most predictable of moments, and other times they sneak up on me, when least expected. But I have learned to answer them with the only other thing I know to be true; I do not know. I will never know; the final catalyst, the last straw, the reason that you turned to death, when so much love still surrounded you. I will never know how it became so dark and why you didn’t ask for help. I do not know. It is the only answer to the unimaginable, unfathomable question of suicide.It is how I answer my heart, when what my head believes simply offers no comfort.

Why was once a question full of wonder. The favorite word of young children learning to understand the world around them. Why is the sky blue? Why is the grass green? Why do cows moo? Why do dogs bark? They asked, and we answered with what we knew. And when we had no answer, we simply answered with because.  Sometimes that satisfied them, and sometimes it didn’t.

And so here I stand, ten months later. I am the child still trying to comprehend the act of a parent. The truest answer to the question, the because, is that you had an illness. That is the answer my head knows, and it is the answer that leaves my heart and my soul unsoothed, unsatisfied and eternally uncomfortable.  But it is all that I will ever know. The only answer that I will ever have.  And all I can truly ask of myself now is to continue to learn to live with that. What my head knows to be true and the answers my heart still seeks now must find a way to live within me, to coexist. And I must continue finding ways to live with them.

Life is an unanswered question, but let’s still believe in the dignity and importance of the question.  (Tennessee Williams)

 

 

 

Categories Uncategorized

Dear Strangers…

February 19, 2016 //
53

No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted. – Aesop

Dear Strangers,

I remember you. Ten months ago, when my cell phone rang with news of my father’s suicide, you were walking into Whole Foods, prepared to go about your food shop, just as I had done only minutes before.

But I had already abandoned my cart full of groceries and I stood in the entryway of the store. My brother was on the other end of the line. He was telling me my father was dead, that he had taken his own life early that morning and through his own sobs, I remember my brother kept saying, “I’m sorry Deborah,  I’m so sorry.” I can’t imagine how it must have felt for him to make that call.

And as we hung up the phone, I started to cry and scream, as my whole body trembled. This just couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be happening. Only moments before I was filling my cart with groceries, going about my errands on a normal Monday morning. Only moments before my life felt intact. Overwhelmed with emotions, I fell to the floor, my knees buckling under the weight of what I had just learned. And you kind strangers, you were there.

You could have kept on walking, ignoring my cries, but you didn’t. You could have simply stopped and stared at my primal display of pain, but you didn’t. No, instead you surrounded me as I yelled through my sobs, “My father killed himself. He killed himself. He’s dead.” And the question that has plagued me since that moment came to my lips in a scream, “Why?” I must have asked it over and over and over again. I remember in that haze of emotions, one of you asked for my phone and asked who you should call. What was my password? You needed my husband’s name as you searched through my contacts. I remember that I could hear your words as you tried to reach my husband for me, leaving an urgent message for him to call me. I recall hearing you discuss among yourselves who would drive me home in my car and who would follow that person to bring them back to the store. You didn’t even know one another, but it didn’t seem to matter. You encountered me, a stranger, in the worst moment of my life & you coalesced around me with common purpose, to help. I remember one of you asking if you could pray for me and for my father. I must have said yes, and I recall now that Christian prayer being offered up to Jesus for my Jewish father and me, and it still both brings tears to my eyes and makes me smile. In my fog, I told you that I had a friend, Pam, who worked at Whole Foods and one of you went in search of her and thankfully, she was there that morning and you brought her to me. I remember the relief I felt at seeing her face, familiar and warm. She took me to the back, comforting and caring for me so lovingly until my husband could get to me. And I even recall as I sat with her, one of you sent back a gift card to Whole Foods; though you didn’t know me, you wanted to offer a little something to let me know that you would be thinking of me and holding me and my family in your thoughts and prayers. That gift card helped to feed my family, when the idea of cooking was so far beyond my emotional reach.

I never saw you after that. But I know this to be true, if it were not for all of you, I might have simply gotten in the car and tried to drive myself home. I wasn’t thinking straight, if I was thinking at all. If it were not for you, I don’t know what I would’ve done in those first raw moments of overwhelming shock, anguish and grief. But I thank God every day that I didn’t have to find out. Your kindness, your compassion, your willingness to help a stranger in need have stayed with me until this day. And no matter how many times my mind takes me back to that horrible life altering moment, it is not all darkness. Because you reached out to help, you offered a ray of light in the bleakest moment I’ve ever endured. You may not remember it. You may not remember me. But I will never, ever forget you. And though you may never know it, I give thanks for your presence and humanity, each & every day.

a-kind-gesture-can-reach-a-wound-that-only-compassion-can-heal-steve-maraboli

 

 

Categories Uncategorized

On Sunflowers & Smiles

February 10, 2016 //
0

sunflower-closeup-480x294

Dear Dad,
Today was the kind of day you loved. Almost 70 degrees in the middle of February, the sun shining, a warm breeze blowing and the mountain view so very crisp & clear (oh how you would’ve loved the mountains). I closed my eyes today and took a deep breath, my face turned toward the sun, just as you used to do, like a sunflower always searching for the warmth & the light. And as I inhaled, I thought of you and for a brief moment, I felt your essence wash over me and I smiled. It may seem a very small thing–and perhaps it is. But to think of you in life, and to feel you, even if just for an instant, reminds me that you are still with me. And to think of you with a smile that isn’t accompanied by a tear, allows me to feel, to trust, that healing is happening, ever so slowly but ever so surely.
I love you Dad. And I miss you so very much…
D

I don’t think there’s anything on this planet that more trumpets life that the sunflower. For me that’s because of the reason behind its name. Not because it looks like the sun but because it follows the sun. During the course of the day, the head tracks the journey of the sun across the sky. A satellite dish for sunshine. Wherever light is, no matter how weak, these flowers will find it. And that’s such an admirable thing. And such a lesson in life. (Helen Mirren)

 

Categories Uncategorized

Sticks and Stones on the Long Road of Grief

February 7, 2016 //
0

Our most difficult task as a friend is to offer understanding when we don’t understand.
―Robert Brault

To grieve is not for pity’s sake. To hurt is not to be blind to life’s blessings. To survive a suicide loss, is to walk through the battlefield… It is not for the faint of heart. To ask for patience, understanding and compassion is not to be selfish. To know one’s limits and lay down boundaries is an act of self preservation. To feel broken is not visible to the naked eye. It requires a willingness to look deeper & harder. To heal is a process, it takes time. To love someone for 46 years and lose them should allow for time to mourn, to face each first, to slowly learn how to live in a world without them. To lose someone to suicide should come with a handbook, to help others understand what we pray they will never know. To be a friend to someone in grief and to accompany them on the road they must travel, is to offer safety, love, light in the storm. To hurt and grieve is human. So is forgiveness. I’m human. I’m doing the best that I can. I still savor the sunrise and sunset over the mountains. I still relish the sound of my children laughing. I still know, feel and give love. I still count my blessings. And I honor the strength and resilience that is evident each day that I get out of bed and put one foot in front of the other. Pity is misplaced on me. I’m a goddamn battle tested warrior. It is not selfish to tend to myself. I am a loving mother and wife. I’m a good friend, fallible and capable of faltering… but good. I did not ask for this loss, this trauma, this grief… but it does not define me. It is a part of me… he was my father, I was his daughter, he ended his own life and I’m contending with it daily. To love me on this journey is a gift you give me… to leave me on this journey… will sometimes happen. It’s not easy. I know. It can be tiring. But to spit on my journey, belittle it or throw spiteful stones of pity and judgement… well, that speaks far more about the ones casting the stones than it does about me! And though they hurt, they will not stop me from looking ahead, striving towards healing and offering gratitude for those who love me in my brokenness and allow me to love them in turn. And even as the stones pierce my skin, they will not harden my heart. I will love and I will grieve with openness & with honesty and I pray, with grace.  Because that is the essence of who I am, in love, in loss & in life.

“You will find that it is necessary to let things go; simply for the reason that they are heavy. So let them go, let go of them. I tie no weights to my ankles.” 

― C. JoyBell C

Categories Coping with Suicide, loss, Uncategorized

Somebody’s Child

January 29, 2016 //
2

homeless kindness

 

If there is among you a poor man, one of your brethren…you shall not harden your heart or shut your hand against your poor brother, but you shall open your hand to him, and lend him sufficient for his need, whatever it may be. Deuteronomy 15:7-10

I drove into Boulder yesterday to meet a friend for lunch. As I always do before I leave, I checked to ensure that I had a supply of food donation bags in my car.  While it isn’t quite as often that I give out  these bags here in the suburbs of Superior, I can always be certain that as I drive around Boulder, there will be ample opportunities to offer some sustenance to a person in need.

As I came off of the parkway, two young men stood along the side of the road, cardboard sign in hand. I was at the end of the line of cars, far back from the traffic light, but I rolled down my window and got the attention of one of the men. He came over to the car, and I offered him two bags, telling him each contained a little food and drink for him and his companion. He smiled graciously, gave me a compliment on my “beautiful smile” and offered me blessings for my kindness.

We chatted a bit, and as a result, by the time I reached the stop light, it had once again turned red. The second gentleman, who had remained by the light, apologized to me for the fact that in taking the time to chat with his friend, I now had to wait just a few minutes more to make my turn and get to where I was going.  I told him quickly that he owed me no apology at all. I was glad to be able to slow down, offer the bags of food and share in a moment of kind conversation. He responded by thanking me again for the food. “People don’t always realize that sometimes we don’t eat anything at all for two days or so,” he said.  “I can’t imagine how hard that must be,” I answered. “Truly, I’m simply glad to be able to do my small part to change that, at least for today.” His friend had come back to his side by now, and the chat continued. I went on to share that we made these bags as a family, to help ensure that we would never drive by a person in need and not be able to respond. And then came the answer that remained with me throughout the day. One of the young men said to me, “Sometimes people forget that I’m somebody’s child too. Thank you for seeing that.”

Though hidden by my sunglasses, I welled up at his response.  I answered that we are all God’s children, connected in this human family of ours. And in that family kindness, compassion, love and warmth matter.

The light turned green, they once again offered their thanks and wished me a blessed day. I wished the same to them, turned down the road and continued on my day’s journey. I’m always struck by those words, each time we are given the chance to simply put a little food and drink into the hands of someone who is struggling.  They offer their “blessings” to us, without fail, each and every time. We who are blessed with ample food, drink, warmth and shelter receive the blessings of someone with so little to give. It seems to me it should be the other way around.  We have the ability to bestow blessings of our own making; a kind word, a smile, spare change, food and drink. These aren’t acts that will alter the course of any of the men and women who we encounter on the streets or while volunteering for homeless programs in our area. But, they reflect our belief that we are all created b’tzelem elohim (in God’s image).

If we all carry a spark of the Divine spirit within us, then truly, we are all “somebody’s child.”  We are all God’s children. And we must see one another, really see one another. Each encounter that I have, whether volunteering for the Boulder Outreach for Homeless Overflow program at Congregation Har HaShem, or just offering an individual who is in need, a little something to eat or drink, allows them to know that they are seen. They are not just a sign, or a person standing in line for bread or soup. They are seen as a human being. And in the end, isn’t that a universal desire that we all share? Don’t we all want to be seen, to be offered a warm smile, an acknowledgement of our struggles, but also of our humanity? Don’t we all want an outstretched hand, and an escape from judgement about where we are in life and how we got there? Can we ever truly believe that we know somebody else’s story, simply because we get a glimpse of one single chapter? I’m somebody’s child. And I have children of my own. And when they look out at the world, I want them to view it with open eyes and open hearts.

Our little bags comprised of fruit cups, nuts, cereal bars, crackers, water and more, cannot change things on any large scale. And our evenings setting up blankets and handing out food for our homeless neighbors in Boulder, are but a small and temporary answer to an issue that is much larger. I know that. I do.

But when I reflect on the interaction that I shared yesterday, I can’t help but think that in those shared moments, each of us is changed for the better. How we see “the stranger in our midst” softens. How we see ourselves in relation to our fellow human beings, is strengthened. And the humanity that fosters within this family of God’s children offers glimmers of hope for the future.

Their signs and faces vary. Some are young, some are old. They are children. They are veterans. They ask for food, for money, for jobs. Some ask on their signs for any act of kindness, even just a smile. They are us. We are them. It is only circumstance that separates us.

“I’m somebody’s child,” the young man said.

Yes, he is.

So am I.

In that respect, we are no different.

So, let us be kind to one another; in word, in deed and in spirit.

A blessed day is sometimes defined by the smallest of moments.

girls food bags

Our daughters with the food bags that we put together.

If you walk down the street and see someone in a box, you have a choice. That person is either the other and you’re fearful of them, or that person is an extension of your family. (Susan Sarandon)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Categories activism, Faith, mitzvot, Nourishing hope, Tikkun Olam ~ Repairing the World, Uncategorized
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